Who You Are
by DobbyRocksSocks
Summary: VoldemortWins!AU You are a barmaid. That is what you do and that is who you are.


**Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognised.**

 **Written for;**

 **The Great AU Competition, Round 1 - Voldemort Wins. Extra Prompts - Yellow, Dangerous.**

 **The Build-A-Fic Workshop Challenge - Rosmerta, Yellow, Afraid, Delicate, Weary.**

 **Word Count Without AN - 1015.**

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 **Who You Are**

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You wonder why you never thought this was a possibility, why you believed so truly that a seventeen year old boy could defeat one of the darkest wizards in wizarding history. Looking back, it seems ridiculous that you ever had even an ounce of hope.

Harry Potter was a child, a child and nothing more than a child. To put such a weight on his shoulders was cruel and you cannot find it in yourself to be surprised that he couldn't live up to the impossible. That the world had fallen apart without him…

You wonder why you never before realised the completely reliant nature of the human race. Why fight for yourselves when you can have children or old men do the job for you. It is… ridiculous, and the hardest thing of all is that you too are guilty of it.

It's hard to get up in the morning now, knowing what you have to look forward too, knowing that without doubt, there will be something horrible happening somewhere because that is the way of things now. For a time, you thought, prayed, hoped that things would get better after the initial transition period.

Yet another foolish hope.

Laws are changing left and right, and you read the Daily Prophet with mounting horror. People are being hunted, killed, murdered simply because they were born to the 'wrong' parents. Children are being tortured, slaughtered, because they don't understand how to run and hide and their parents have no idea that there has been a war, fought and won by the wrong side.

You are suitably horrified, not only by the news but by the knowledge that there is absolutely nothing to be done about it. What can you do, a barmaid, an aging woman with little to offer the world other than a cold beer and a listening ear? There is nothing and you hate yourself a little for that.

You should have, could have, done more, though what more you aren't sure. Would you have been able to make any sort of difference to the outcome? You doubt it, but you should have tried. It isn't enough to admit that you were afraid. Everyone was afraid, it was a terrifying time, but you were a coward where others fought and you are paying the price for that now.

Oh, you still have your bar. The Three Broomsticks is still open and in all fairness, business is thriving. It is the wrong kind of thriving. You hand out beers and whisky, listening to excited conversation of 'hunting' and 'captures', and it's awful because you know that these people, these monsters are talking about other human beings, and you hate hate hate them for it.

Where your bar was once filled with Hogsmeade residents, locals that you knew by name and drink order, that you could engage in pointless chit chat, there are now Ministry workers complaining about the efforts of capturing Muggle-borns and rebels. Where you would have weekends filled with happy students from the school, talking, laughing, screaming and shouting in joy, there are now regimented students, all drawn and worn, having almost silent conversations and working on schoolwork as they hesitantly sip at butterbeer.

It is awful to watch them, their spirits dampened by fear, their hearts weakened by the torture of the detentions they are forced to endure when they step a toe out of line. They are like child soldiers, and it is heartbreaking.

You wish you could help them but you can't. Lord Voldemort, because you are not so much a coward to fear his name any longer, if only in your own mind, is watching from his throne, and any signs of rebellion will be thwarted before it can really take hold.

Only… the whispers are coming. Whispers of an underground group, growing in both number and strength, planning to fight back against the new regime. You don't know what to think. You feel like you should be encouraging them, because rebellion is probably the only chance at life returning to some semblance of normality.

Only…

More lives lost and broken. More death and destruction and chaos. You're tired, and you wonder how long it can last before Wizarding Britain just collapses in on itself. Fights and battles, wars of words and wands and laws, and how long can it really last like that?

You won't say a word of course. Won't betray those who plan to stand against the new rule. They are people that you knew in a life that wasn't this tiring, but you are weary and you are a coward so you won't tell but you won't help either.

You'll stay in your bar, a worn yellow hand-towel draped over your shoulder, and you'll serve the customers no matter that you hate them. You'll smile politely and take their money, you'll learn more about them as time passes and you'll begin to ask after their wives, their husbands, their children and their pets.

Because that is what you do and that is who you are.

You are a barmaid, and you would have been a barmaid had Harry Potter done the impossible and you will remain a barmaid long after Lord Voldemort took the seat on his throne.

You'll continue to read about the skirmishes in the Daily Prophet, safe out of the firing line. You'll continue to feel horror at the bloodshed and the loss and the death, because you are a delicate soul at heart and you feel each death like a blow to your chest.

The names will continue to jump out at you, because you've served them butterbeer on a break from the school, because you've served them firewhiskey after a hard day at work, and because you've spoken to them about their families over a tankard of mead.

You'll be disregarded by most, because sitting on the back lines holds no glory, it is not dangerous, and you'll grieve for your customers while you serve your new ones.

Because you are a barmaid, and that is what barmaids do.


End file.
